


Touch of a Velvet Hand

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 18:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: This is a PWP, pure and simple-- you have been warned! Angst.





	Touch of a Velvet Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Touch Of A Velvet Hand by Ravenne

Sep 1997  
Well, here it is, my first post ever (eek)!  
Special thanks to beta-readers TinaM, Callisto, and Jill for all their suggestions and support!  
K/Sk   
Rated NC-17 for mostly-consensual m/m sex. This is a PWP, pure and simple--you have been warned!  
A note: This is *not* meant to be the balcony scene from Tunguska. This story has no specific timeline, nor does it belong before, during, or after any particular episode.  
Archive: MKRA/MSSS: Yes; Anywhere else: not without asking me first, please  
And, finally ... I don't own any of these people. They are owned by CC, 1013 productions, etc., etc...

* * *

Touch Of A Velvet Hand  
By Ravenne ()

Standing at the kitchen sink with glass in hand, FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner paused for a moment, listening to the frantic clanking of chain against pipe that came from down the hall as his prisoner made desperate--albeit futile--attempts at escape. He was terrified--that had been plain when they'd brought him here, about a half hour earlier. It was, Skinner mused, rather a pleasant change of affairs, though the A.D. was still slightly at loss for exactly what to *do* with his unexpected houseguest.

He glanced up at the clock; eighteen minutes after eleven already, and him with work tomorrow. Skinner sighed and drew himself a glass of water from the tap, then padded on bare feet through the halls to the back bedroom.

The house was new; Skinner had moved in only about two weeks earlier, after several months of haggling over price and one frenzied weekend of throwing everything he owned into boxes and carting it all over from his apartment. He'd never realized exactly how little he owned until all was spread out over two stories and twelve rooms. It was a very nice place, with only a few shortcomings; in the back bedroom, for instance, there was a rather unsightly pipe that ran from floor to ceiling, some architectural flaw, Skinner assumed--it had actually knocked a few thousand dollars off the price. It was thick, sturdy copper, a water pipe or something. Skinner had never asked exactly what it was for. He'd never dreamed that he might actually have a use for it. 

He paused in the doorway to that same bedroom, leaning on the doorframe. He took a slow sip of water and watched his prisoner curiously. Why they'd brought him here Skinner still didn't quite understand; maybe they figured he had the room, and the house was enough out of the way that no one would hear any screams and call the police.

Skinner's captive suddenly froze; he was crouched by the wall, clad only in t-shirt and faded blue jeans, wrists shackled to the heavy floor-to- ceiling pipe. He had obviously been trying to wrench his hands free from the handcuffs for some time, for his wrists were rubbed raw and bloody. His head whipped around, thick brown hair, damp with sweat, flying across his brow; wild green eyes stared at Skinner, flitting erratically up and down the man's body, widening hungrily at the sight of the glass of water he held casually in one hand.

Their eyes met and held for a long moment; lips parted briefly, and then the prisoner resumed his efforts to escape, fighting against the cuffs that bound him more desperately than before.

//He's terrified of me,// Skinner realized, with a measure of surprise and not a little satisfaction. //He's absolutely terrified of me!// The thought was so delightful that he could barely keep from laughing. He took another speculative sip of water, inhaling deeply once he'd swallowed. The aroma in the air was curious, a cloying mixture of sweat, fear, and just a touch of some darkly spicy cologne that Skinner had never known his captive to wear, oppressive and yet somehow alluring both at once.

//He expects me to hurt him,// Skinner thought as he watched his prisoner jerk uselessly on his chains. //And I suppose he deserves it, but I'm not really in a sadistic mood tonight. Besides, why should I fulfill his expectations?// He straightened up and entered the room, walking over to the wall and kneeling down by the pipe.

"Here, you're going to hurt yourself doing that." He tenderly folded one massive hand over the prisoner's wrists, and the young man froze again. His chest was heaving, breath ragged, and he stared at Skinner with frantic eyes. 

The A.D. smiled gently. "I'm not going to hurt you, Alex."

Alex Krycek looked as though he didn't believe that for a second.

Skinner held up the glass. "Are you thirsty?"

Green eyes fastened voraciously onto the glass; Krycek wet his lips. Still he said nothing, and still he looked like a caged wild beast.

Skinner reached out to him; Krycek flinched away, and didn't relax any when Skinner's fingertips only lightly brushed his cheek. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. Here, drink."

The young man stared at him fearfully, but opened his mouth slightly as Skinner lifted the edge of the glass to his parched lips. He drank slowly at first, but was soon gulping eagerly, as though he hadn't had a drink in several days--a prospect which would not have surprised Skinner in the least.

"Easy, Alex." Krycek let out a soft mewl of protest as Skinner took the half-empty glass away and set it on the floor. The A.D. softly caressed the unexpectedly smooth cheek of his prisoner with an almost affectionate hand. "Don't want to overdo it. You'll make yourself sick."

Krycek watched him through the dense curtain of tousled chestnut hair that hung in front of his eyes. "What are you doing?" he whispered, and his voice was thick and hoarse.

Skinner continued to stroke his cheek tenderly, fingering a lock of his hair. "Nothing, Alex," he murmured. "Nothing at all."

Alex Krycek was lovely. Skinner had never really noticed that before. But even now, chained to a pipe, sweaty, dirty, and terrified, his appeal was undeniable--or perhaps those factors only served to heighten it. Skinner knew very well that he should be beating him to a bloody pulp right now, at least--that was obviously what Krycek expected to happen. But the A.D. realized that the lovely young man was far more unnerved by Skinner's uncharacteristic tenderness towards him than he would ever be by any violent blow. And Skinner decided that that would be how he gained his revenge. Krycek expected beatings, berations, ferocity--so Skinner would give him none of it. Let no anger enter his speech, let no word of their pasts escape his lips this night--thus would Skinner's vengeance be all the greater--and much, much sweeter.

He rose to his feet and picked up the glass, carrying it to the table beside the bed; Krycek's head twisted around painfully as he tried to follow Skinner's progress about the room. The A.D. picked up some clothes that were on the floor, straightened a few books on one of the numerous shelves.

"What are you going to do to me?" Krycek whispered.

Skinner shook his head. "Nothing."

The young man made a noise suspiciously like a sob and put his head on his arms. Skinner turned and watched him again. After a moment he set down the book he'd been holding and removed his glasses, setting them on top of the book. He silently moved across the room to kneel once more, this time behind Krycek, and put out one hand to trace a finger down the length of the young man's spine. Krycek jerked violently at the light touch, pulling away as far as he could, but that wasn't far.

Skinner very gently drew the young man back, hands at Krycek's waist; Skinner's avowed enemy was trembling wildly. The A.D. leaned forward, resting his face in the young man's damp hair and drinking in his slightly musky scent. "Relax, Alex," he whispered. "I promised that I wouldn't hurt you." Very slowly, Skinner slid his arms around the young man's waist, holding him close against his chest.

Krycek made no reply but drew in a long, quivering breath, closing his eyes. Resigned to his fate, Skinner thought, but the body in his arms was still shaking. Skinner smiled slightly, enjoying the sensation of the heat that was rising between his legs and spreading down his thighs like melted butter. He brushed Krycek's hair away from his neck and pressed his mouth softly against the skin of his throat; the taste in his mouth was salt and something that was almost like the scent roses, sweet and tantalizing and nearly addictive. Skinner wanted to taste every inch of that perfect skin. Krycek moaned.

"You're going to kill me tomorrow," he whispered, voice low and guttural. "When they come back. You're going to kill me."

"Possibly." Skinner ran one hand lightly over Krycek's denim-encased thigh; it was firm and round, taut with terrified apprehension. Skinner entertained thoughts about what it would feel like without the thin layer of cloth separating skin from skin. "But tomorrow may never come, Alex. No one can know the future. A gas leak could blow the house sky-high within the next five minutes, or a burglar could break in and shoot us both dead." He dropped his hand down between Krycek's legs, very gently cupping the bulge there, and was pleased to note that the young man's erection was at least as hard as his own, if not more so, straining painfully against the confines of his jeans. "We might not live through the next hour, Alex. Who can tell?" His tongue flickered against Krycek's earlobe, and when he next spoke his voice was very soft. "Why be concerned with something that may never happen?"

Krycek let out a long, ragged breath, and then Skinner's hands were plucking at the hem of his t-shirt, drawing it up the length of his torso and over his head, fingers sliding softly down his arms as they pushed the shirt up around his wrists. Skinner remained in that position for a moment, chest pressed against Krycek's bare back, fingers laced together. Then he withdrew long enough to remove his own shirt.

At the first hot shock of flesh on flesh Krycek inhaled sharply, straining against the manacles that bound him in place. Skinner's fingers danced down his arms and over his shoulders, then across the young man's smooth chest to massage each of his nipples. Krycek gasped audibly, head thrown back, unconsciously pressing his body against Skinner's. The A.D. smiled again as he felt the young man's nipples harden beneath his talented ministrations, and his tongue trailed down to taste more of that irresistible skin. Gently, he nudged Krycek's head back further to give himself better access to his throat. Abruptly Krycek turned his head, and Skinner kissed his parted lips, lightly enough that the dark-haired young man moaned in protest and strained backwards, trying to catch Skinner's mouth with his own. Skinner allowed Krycek's tongue to dart briefly between his lips before he pulled back. He brushed each of the young man's nipples again and Krycek groaned; his fists were clenched, body tight, nipples stiff and brown under Skinner's fingers. The A.D. regretted that this position did not give him leave to taste them as well, but vowed that the situation would be remedied before the night was out.

He could feel his own body crying out for attention, erection that was pressed against the back of the young man he held in his arms eagerly wanting to be somewhere else. Skinner's hands lowered to loose the top button of Krycek's jeans, then paused, fingers tracing leisurely around the young man's body, just beneath his waistband. Gradually he lowered the zipper, and slipped his hand down underneath the cloth to curve delicately between his captive's legs; the sound that escaped Krycek's throat this time was almost a scream. Skinner slowly rose to his knees, and the hand gently massaging between his legs compelled Krycek to follow. The A.D. very deliberately pushed Krycek's jeans to his knees, hands sliding down his thighs; the young man's breath was coming in ragged, heavy gasps, and he jerked against his chains.

There was a sudden rush of cold air along his back as Skinner unexpectedly moved away, and Krycek cried out his wordless objection. Skinner quickly slid out of his own jeans, then paused, looking down at the naked figure who knelt before him. Krycek's chest rose and fell deeply, and his head was now bowed, thick, disheveled hair concealing his face. Later, Skinner would want to see his eyes. The young man was almost crying, and Skinner new that he thought the A.D. had brought him this far just to abandon him.

But then Skinner was kneeling behind him again, huge, gentle hands taking him at the hips and guiding him, easing him carefully into his lap. Krycek let out a sharp moan as he felt the length of Skinner's cock pressing between his legs, and his hands gently parting the young man's thighs. Skinner shifted slightly, and Krycek moaned again. The A.D. very lightly trailed his fingers up and down his captive's erection and around his testicles, until Krycek gasped and lurched against his hand.

Skinner himself was panting now, heart racing, and their sweat seemed to congeal and glue their bodies together. His legs were trembling with anticipation as he lubricated himself with his own semen, and guided Krycek's hips into position. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he pushed against the young man's buttocks, pulling Krycek back against him even as he moved further inside.

A shriek of ecstatic agony tore from Krycek's lips as Skinner entered him and the young man was crying in earnest now, tears streaming unheeded down his face. Skinner buried himself to the hilt in Krycek's body, and it took him a moment to realize that half of the cries that had all previously been Krycek's were now coming from his own throat as well. Krycek pushed backwards, impaling himself further on Skinner's cock, arms straining at the ends of the shackles. The ache between his legs was becoming excruciating, and he nearly sobbed in relief when Skinner's strong arms encircled him and his hands dipped to engulf Krycek's own cock, stroking and teasing.

Krycek came within minutes; milky-white liquid spurted halfway across the room, drenching Skinner's hands and Krycek's own belly as the young man screamed wordlessly. His captive's wild and utter lack of restraint served only to heighten Skinner's desire and hasten along his own ejaculation; he thrust deeply into Krycek's body, still careful not to hurt his younger lover, and soon came with a fiery explosion that astonished even him. Krycek screamed again and came once more, writhing under Skinner's hands.

The A.D. remained deep within Krycek for what seemed like an eternity; when he finally pulled out, slowly enough to elicit another harsh moan from the young man, Krycek collapsed, fingers curling around the pipe, legs spread behind him, t- shirt still tangled at his wrists and jeans down around his knees. Thin rivulets of milky fluid trickled down his inner thighs.

Skinner sat back on his heels, panting, and just looked down at Krycek. He could have easily taken the young man again, and wanted to, badly, but instead he pulled the jeans off the rest of the way and nudged Krycek's legs further apart, kneeling between them and bending to delicately lick his own semen from his young captive's buttocks and thighs. Krycek moaned softly, and his chains clanked.

"Take them off," he whispered, voice barely even audible. "Unchain me. Please--"

Skinner found that he liked it when Krycek begged him for something, but that was not the point of the evening. He reached for his own jeans and dug the key out of one pocket; then he moved up to the pipe and unlocked Krycek's right handcuff, tossing the newly freed t-shirt in a corner. Carefully, he rolled the young man over onto his back; then he fastened the cuff once more around Krycek's wrist, but this time it didn't bind the young man to anything. Skinner straddled Krycek's hips, gazing down at him; Krycek just looked back, an expression of something like chagrin and desire and raw vulnerability reflected in his devastatingly beautiful, long-lashed green eyes. Then the A.D. bent to kiss the young man, prying his mouth open with his tongue; Krycek yielded immediately. His cuffed hands skittered across Skinner's well-muscled chest, as though he didn't quite know what to do with them, and he tried to devour the A.D.'s mouth with all the voraciousness of a man eating his last meal before execution.

Skinner pulled away suddenly, evoking a soft whimper from Krycek. He looked down at the young man lying prone beneath him; emerald eyes were huge, and his lips were swollen and trembling. Skinner felt as though he could just look at him for days on end. He touched the young man's face gently, caressing his cheek with his fingertips.

"So beautiful," he murmured softly.

Krycek choked. "No--" he gasped.

"Shh. Don't speak." Skinner caught Krycek's hands in his own and lifted them to his lips, then leaned down to bite delicately at Krycek's lips. He trailed excruciatingly slow kisses down the young man's neck to his chest, hesitating ever-so- briefly before fastening his mouth over one of the hard brown nipples he'd so wanted to taste earlier. Krycek groaned, body arching against Skinner as the A.D.'s tongue lapped at the stiffening nub. The young man's hands curved over Skinner's balding scalp, handcuffs scraping against his skin. Skinner himself felt a new surge of passion at Krycek's touch; he'd always found the touch of hands on his head terribly erotic, ever since he'd started losing his hair decades before. His teeth scraped Krycek's nipple and the young man let out a sharp cry.

Skinner's mouth traveled down Krycek's torso, tasted sweat on the smooth chest and stomach while Krycek squirmed and whispered unintelligibly, murmurs punctuated every so often by a ragged gasp of pleasure. On impulse Skinner rubbed one sandpaper cheek against the tender flesh just below Krycek's navel--the A.D. hadn't shaved since about six that morning. The young man moaned loudly, fingers digging into Skinner's scalp, drawing his knees up and spreading his legs.

Skinner nuzzled at Krycek's erection, gently pushing his legs farther apart; Krycek responded to even the slightest touch. Skinner's tongue lapped delicately along the length of his shaft, then licked all around his testicles. He was moving with deliberate slowness, though it took most of the self-restraint he had; he wanted to take Krycek all at once and do it hard and fast, but he also knew that Krycek expected him to do it that way--and was almost begging for it. Somehow the young man seemed unable to accept tenderness, but that only strengthened Skinner's resolve. He planted a kiss on the very tip of Krycek's cock, then took the head between his teeth and daintily touched it with his tongue.

A ragged gasp escaped Krycek's throat. "Please--" he whispered.

Skinner lifted his head, and reached up to place one large hand over the young man's mouth. "Shhh." He elevated Krycek's legs and placed them over his own shoulders, slipping his hands along the firm muscles of his buttocks. Skinner's captive whimpered.

The A.D. brushed his fingers through the soft, cinnamon-colored hair between Krycek's legs, then lowered his head and swallowed the young man's cock in its entirety.

Krycek screamed, and Skinner was vaguely glad that he had no neighbors nearby. The young man grabbed Skinner's head and thrust his hips upwards; the A.D. almost choked but at that point he didn't care. He drank in the deep, musky scent of Krycek's pubic hair, while the young man's quivering cock scraped the back of his throat.

Small, breathy cries were coming from Krycek's throat, and he clawed at Skinner's shoulders desperately. He had even less control than Skinner had imagined, and sooner than the A.D. had expected hot, salty liquid was spurting against the back of his mouth and trickling down his throat. He swallowed as much as he could, but still semen dribbled out at the corners of his mouth. Krycek lifted his head to look down at him, panting, and almost laughed. Then his head fell back and he put his hands over his eyes. "Oh God," he gasped, voice trembling. "Oh God."

Skinner sat up, and Krycek's legs lolled shakily to either side. Breathing heavily, Skinner swallowed a few more times and wiped at his mouth, then reached out to gently run a hand down Krycek's chest.

But to his surprise the young man rolled away, burying his head in his arms. "No," he whispered, voice muffled. "No more. Please."

"Alex." Skinner gently took Krycek's arm and pulled him up into a sitting position; the young man's shoulders were slumped, head hanging. Skinner pushed the thick shock of hair out of his captive's face, then cupped his hand under Krycek's chin and tipped his head up. "I'm not going to hurt you." No matter how many times he reiterated that Krycek seemed loathe to accept it.

Krycek looked up at him through unnaturally long lashes, and Skinner thought for a moment that he might drown in those extraordinary green eyes. He had never paid attention to the color of Krycek's eyes before that night. For a moment neither moved; then Krycek flung his still-manacled arms around his captor's neck, crushing the other man closer to him and shifting himself up into Skinner's lap. Strong arms folded around Krycek's naked body, one hand tangling in his hair, and absently Skinner wondered what had happened in the young man's life that had left him so desperately starved for affection, that he'd even take it from a man supposed to be his declared enemy. The A.D. had never dreamed that this was what lay beneath Krycek's seemingly tough exterior.

He ran his fingers gently through the young man's hair, then tilted his captive's head back and tenderly sealed his mouth over Krycek's. His lips were soft and pliant, and the kiss he returned was hungry, but not ravenous as it had been. Eyes closed, Skinner relished the taste of Krycek's mouth and the sensation of their slicked torsos clasped against each other, nipples and cocks stiff and tingling, Krycek's legs spread wide and wrapped around Skinner's waist. Skinner could feel an absolutely delicious warmth spreading within his groin for the third time that night, and he wondered, half-awed, what on earth it was about Alex Krycek that aroused him more fully than he could ever remember. No less did he wonder what on earth it was about *him* that seemed to be doing to Alex Krycek exactly the same thing.

******************************

Skinner propped himself up on one elbow and looked at the clock; 3:47 in the morning. And him with work tomorrow. Krycek lay in the bed beside him, eyes closed; his hands were still shackled together and now rested on the pillow above his head. Save that one time when Skinner had loosed him from the pipe, not once in nearly five hours had Krycek asked to be released from his handcuffs. He'd spoken no more than a few words throughout the night, though otherwise he had been quite vocal. Now, however, he seemed exhausted, and Skinner had to admit that he himself was not quite up to another romp around the bedroom. He settled back down into the bed, slipping one hand beneath the sheet until it came to rest easily between Krycek's legs. The young man let out a soft moan, for even the slightest touch seemed to rub raw against the overly-sensitized nerves in his genitals.

Smiling slightly, Skinner removed his hand to let it play teasingly across Krycek's chest. He touched his captive's face with his other hand. "Look at me, Alex."

Krycek opened those amazing green eyes and gazed up at Skinner passively. "I love you," he said softly.

Skinner shook his head briefly, fingering a lock of sweat-drenched brown hair. "No, you don't. It isn't me you want, Alex--it's anyone." He chuckled. "You don't even like me."

Krycek closed his eyes again and turned his head away, face stoic. Skinner leaned over and kissed the young man softly on the side of the mouth before settling back into the pillows, still running his hand lightly over Krycek's bare chest. He sighed and closed his own eyes, humming softly to himself.

Krycek twisted his head around to look at him. "What is that?" he wanted to know.

Skinner sighed again, contentedly. "Just something I was listening to earlier this evening. The Beatles. 'Happiness is a Warm Gun'."

"What brought that up?"

"Nothing in particular. You know it?"

"Yeah."

Skinner rolled over onto his side, tracing one finger lightly around Krycek's left nipple, quoting a line from the song in a soft voice. "'.... well acquainted with the touch of a velvet hand, like a lizard on a windowpane ... ' "

Krycek met his gaze evenly, and skipped the next line. "'Lying with his eyes, while his hands are busy working overtime'?"

Skinner's finger stopped briefly, and for a split second he felt a pang of something very like guilt, but he just smiled and shook his head. "Shh." He shifted over until he lay along the warm length of Krycek's body, and bent to tenderly kiss the young man's mouth; Krycek just shut his eyes once more and allowed Skinner's tongue to delicately part his lips.

******************************

The clock in the living room read 6:53. Assistant Director Walter Skinner sat on his living room couch, fully dressed for work, waiting for them to come take away the prisoner who slept, now fully dressed as well, in the back bedroom, hands cuffed to the pipe that ran from floor to ceiling. In about ten minutes Skinner would be late, but he had to wait for the pickup to take place before he could go to work. In the meantime, he sat in silence and pondered whatever mystical forces they were that sanctioned him to spend the night in the arms--and ass--of Alex Krycek.

At two minutes before seven the doorbell rang.

"It's open," Skinner called flatly. The door opened, and the two who had brought Krycek to him in the first place entered. Skinner nodded indifferently towards the back of the house. "He's there."

They hesitated, but disappeared down the hall. A moment later there were shouts and the sound of a scuffle, and they returned to the living room, half-dragging the disheveled, struggling prisoner along with them. Skinner watched them through tired eyes.

Krycek was fighting to get free as they pulled him towards the front door. His gaze came to rest on Skinner, sitting sluggishly on the couch; he had obviously thought that the Assistant Director had been planning on doing something to� help him. "Skinner--" he gasped, struggling against the hands that held him and the shackles that now bound his hands behind his back. "Skinner, please--don't let them take me--*Skinner*!" Skinner just watched him, unmoving. Krycek's eyes widened in a horrified expression of shocked betrayal, and he just stared at his former captor; he made no other sound as they dragged him from the house. When the door finally closed Skinner heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes.

******************************

A moment later the door opened again and Mulder came back, clothes rumpled from the near battle to get Krycek into the car outside. He straightened his jacket and dusted himself off. "Thank you for putting up with him, sir," he said.

Skinner grunted.

Mulder paused and wet his lips; very rarely was the Assistant Director ever at loss for words. "Um, I'm sorry about the short notice, I know it wasn't very fair--"

Skinner cut him off, gesturing vaguely. "Forget it."

Mulder peered at him closely. "Sir, exactly what *did* happen last night?" Skinner abruptly rose to his feet, moving into the kitchen to retrieve his briefcase from one of the chairs. "Nothing, Agent Mulder. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm already a half hour late for a meeting because of the unexpected houseguest you left with me."

Mulder nodded. "I *am* sorry about that, sir."

Skinner just grunted again and made a show of going through the papers in his briefcase.

"Yeah." Mulder moved awkwardly towards the door, then hesitated. "Um, sir, we may need a place to put him tonight--"

Skinner turned to fix him with an even glare. "Agent Mulder," he said in a very quiet, very steady voice, "do not bring him here again."

Mulder just nodded again. "Yeah. Well ... thanks." Skinner turned back to his briefcase, and Mulder, realizing that no more conversation would be forthcoming from his superior, turned and left the house.

When he was gone again Skinner shut his briefcase with a sharp snap and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked towards the back of the house, then made his way down the hall to the bedroom which he had shared with Alex Krycek for that one night.

The room still smelled unequivocally like Krycek, so much so that Skinner suddenly felt weak in the knees had to steady himself against the doorframe. He couldn't believe that no one had noticed what had gone on in here. The taste of the young man's body still lingered on his tongue and lips, and Skinner felt a surge of heat between his legs just thinking about it.

He sighed heavily. If he wanted revenge, he'd gotten it; the expression on Krycek's face as Mulder hustled him out the door more than made up for everything Skinner's young enemy had done in the past. Maybe now Krycek would understand how Skinner and all the others he'd betrayed had felt. But still, the young man's face had cut Skinner to the bone and seemed to scour grooves into his very soul. Somehow he knew that no one had ever touched Krycek the way that he had that night, and because of it Krycek had let himself open up, even let himself trust, at least a little, for once in his life. Maybe he really did love Skinner, in his own bizarre and maladjusted sort of way--and if no one had ever treated him well, wasn't it natural to grow attached to a person who did? But the Assistant Director had turned him away--Krycek should have known better than to trust him. Skinner had his revenge, sure--but now that he did he really wasn't sure that he wanted it anymore.

Abruptly he straightened up and shut the bedroom door; he'd call the cleaning lady to fix it up when he returned home in the evening. He went back to the kitchen, retrieved his briefcase, and locked the door behind him before he departed for work and an early morning meeting.

finis


End file.
